Blog For Free!
Archives
Home
2005 June
2005 February
2004 October
2004 August
2004 June
2004 May
2004 April
My Links
Atomsk's Blog
Silentscreams68's Blog
Beavsgrl's Blog
Ekayanie's Blog
Stacerz2010's Blog
Fallinangel8587's Blog
Euphoria's Blog
tBlog
My Profile
Send tMail
My tFriends
My Images
Sponsored
Blog
|
| Left Behind VII |
| 06.25.05 (9:48 pm) [edit] |
My heart still pounding within my chest, my breaths still thick and labored, I lay against the pillows at the back of my bed, and tried with all my heart to regain my calm, to truly assess the situation at hand. Had Andy even been here? Had it been more than a wonderful dream?
It seemed impossible, but it had to be true. Andy, this mysterious boy from my distant past, had returned to me, and he had held in his hand the very item I had pondered over for weeks before giving up hope of ever seeing him again.
And now he had left, out the window, into the fading sunset. He was gone.
No, I thought, it couldn't be!
Feeling a small, desperate flame of anxious rage build up inside of me, fueling my adrenaline, optimizing my senses, I went back to the window, and opened it again. Pushing aside my fear of heights, my fear of the wrath of my horrible father, I climbed over the edge of the second-story house and made my way shakingly down the large maple tree.
Somehow, I reached the bottom, having to jump a few feet from the last branch, and glanced around. I was alone. The sun was setting. The sky was a brilliant pinkish-purple over the horizon of the distant trees. Most families were inside having dinner. In fact, it would be dinner time at my house very soon. They would be looking for me. But I didn’t care. I needed to find him.
I took to the street, walking, my eyes darting in every direction. “Andy,” I whispered loudly, “Andy?”
“Rebecca,” he walked from the side of the house. “You’re crazy. What’s your old man gonna’ think?” He smirked.
“Who cares?” I laughed, and jumped back into his arms.
He embraced me. He kissed me. I was utterly in love. “Come on, babe. We can watch it over my friend’s house.”
I followed him, his arm around my shoulder, all the way to a dingy little brown shack faintly resembling a house and surrounded by a jungle of tall grass and untrimmed oaks. It was only blocks away from my home, but I had never seen it. Upon entering the building, I was overwhelmed by the powerful scent of what I suspected to be marijuana smoke which hung heavily in the air. The place was dark, lit by candles, and the only furniture in the small room was an assortment of beanbag chairs and a dirty-looking couch. There were two doors near the back leading to other rooms, and a small kitchen set up in the corner.
Now, I began to notice the armoire, the chest of drawers, the projector and the white screen at the front of the room. No television, though. A minute later, I heard a toilet flush, and a long-haired hippy, this one not so neatly groomed as Andy himself, emerged from the bathroom, smoking a joint.
“Andy!” he said, smiling widely.
Andy took his arm off of my shoulder and approached the man, putting his arms around him in a friendly hug, which seemed alien and strange to me considering the fact that they were both males. It was not something I was used to. “Nice to see you again, Bill.”
“Where you been, brother?” Bill asked.
“Around,” Andy replied. I observed that their kinship seemed so genuine, so loving, so different than the cold, business-like relationships I had been raised to believe in. The revelation sent a warm yet frightening feeling to the core of my heart.
“Who’s the fox?” Bill asked, fixing his eyes onto me, and I felt myself blush deeply.
Andy turned toward me then. “This is Bec—” He smiled and winked. “Rebecca.”
I smiled back, though I suddenly felt a bit terrified at my situation. What would happen when my mother called me down to dinner—it might be happening right now!—and I didn’t answer? What if the cops came in, smelling the weed, and spotted me? What if my father found out that—?
“Rebecca!” Bill smiled and for the moment, my terror melted away. He seemed so kind, so pleasantly stoned, so far from any logical worry in the universe. “Great to meet you. You Andy’s girl?”
I blushed again, not knowing how to answer.
“No,” Andy replied for me, “Just a friend.” He winked again, handsomely. “For now.” How much could a person blush before the vessels in their face just up and burst? I wondered absently. “This girl has potential, Bill. She’s got a beautiful soul—I can tell.” Andy reached into his knapsack and pulled out the roll of film.
Bill smiled and nodded knowingly, carefully putting out his unfinished joint and setting it aside. He took the film and began the process of connecting it to the projector without another word. But maybe these people didn’t need words. Maybe in their own perfectly simple way, they already had everything figured out.
Andy had one thing right, at least.
The film that began to project onto the stained off-white screen at that moment—after Andy had sat me next to him on that unclean beige couch, while Bill melted into a sagging beanbag chair and relit his joint—did indeed change my life.
Maybe if I hadn’t seen it that day, my “adolescent phase” may have ended—maybe I would have outgrown my fantasies of “goodness,” of “more,” and continued on my father’s business-like path to respectable modern womanhood in the late twentieth century.
Maybe, somehow, I would have lived to see that womanhood, one way or another.
But instead…everything changed. For good.
|
|
|
| |
| Disloyalty of the Scribe |
| 02.23.05 (5:01 pm) [edit] |
Hello. My name is Jill. I have insofar been the author of this little chronicle. The idea for this scripture, this fantasy weblog, hit me in April of last year as if from thin air. And it seemed all too perfect, all too wonderful an escape from an opressive reality. I began typing rapidly and exuberantly and loving every minute of it. I loved Rebecca Holmes, whether or not I believed in her, as I felt her story flow effortlessly from my fingertips.
But, after the fairly good response to the first chapter, I began to get arrogant. I added an exerpt from my childhood diary in the third entry, and that entry never seemed quite right.
I added bogus supernateral explanations of how this story came to be on the internet, and those seemed just as forced.
Perhaps this dear character does exist. Perhaps she does possess some weak physical form and grow tired even as she tells her story to me in some subtle, silent way.
But I type it. I type it and I love it, and I have betrayed my unseen friend, my Rebecca. I have added my own twists. I have become very vain.
I want now only to tell this story now and to tell it right. I will allow the enbodiment of the tale to effortlessly guide me as it did at the very beginning, and I will pick up where we left off, from the first person of my dear Rebecca, with Andy and the fateful film. Thank you. Have a good night.
|
|
|
| |
| Unnoficial Update |
| 10.14.04 (12:48 pm) [edit] |
How are you all, my last few loyal readers?
I have missed you all so.
Once again, I have drifted, faded and lost track of time.
Time. So crucial and precious to the living; so utterly meaningless and everlasting to the dead.
But, of course, mytime is no longer to be thought of as so. For you, my friends, are living, breathing creatures. You are all still entangled in this web of matter and moments, which, through my contact with you, has entagled me back into this pattern as well. And oh how delightfully threatening it feels. Would that I could speak aloud to you, but of course, I can not. And in all truths, I may never gain this level of strength within any of your lifetimes, or those of your great-great-great-grandch ildren, for that matter.
Would that I could command matter like the powerful yet evil creature in Anne Rice's The Witching Hour. Would that I could gain power over a number of years enough to weep real tears and cause a storm in the sky!
Of course, that is not without possiblily.
But look at me, tired right now, and unable to type much more. Will I ever gain the power I desire? Perhaps even enough to reenter life as some strong, physical immortal who shall never, never die?
I may never know.
I'll update the story later.
Goodbye.
|
|
|
| |
| Left Behind: VI (Welcome Back, Andy.) |
| 08.17.04 (11:10 am) [edit] |
Eyes still completely round, I hastily undid the bronze latches along the bottom frame of the window, practically throwing the lower section up to overlap the other. I reached both my arms down, and locked my hands around his elbows as he did the same to mine. In a dual-effort, we managed to pull his body through the small, open space.
He stood before me, a good six inches above my height; brown hair combed for a change, and nearly reaching his waist (mine had maybe passed my waistline by now); golden eyes bright and vibrant as ever...
"Andy..." I repeated again, not fully believing what was going on.
"Heya, Babe." he said, casually leaning over to wrap his arms around me, to kiss me passionately on the lips, perhaps not knowing that it was the first kiss of my life. "Ya look nice." He smiled.
Still caught in the swoon, I replied, slowly and dreamily "You too..." It was true. He wore the same old bell-bottoms, but the shirt was a button-up, black and red design which looked stunning on his slightly-lanky form. I opened my mouth as if to speak again, but quickly closed it, realizing that I really had no idea what to say... "How--" I cleared my throte. "How've you been?"
His eyes brightened. "Fine, fine... I had a little bit of probation a while back, but its over now. I've just gotta watch what I do."
I frowned in a suddenly-overwhelming guilt. If it wasn't for me, he might have gotten away. If it wasn't for me--
His voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Something wrong?"
I looked back up. "No... Nothing..." I coughed. "About the protest... I'm-- um... sorry I got you caught. Really..."
He chuckled and waved his hand in the air. "Don't worry about it. It wasn't yer fault, Babe. I coulda ditched you and headed for the hills any time. It was my fault I got caught."
Yes, you could have, couldn't you. But you didn't.
It hit me suddenly how much he had put on the line to get me out of there... he could have gone to jail... "Thank you." I breathed out.
"Don't worry about it." he replied casually, reaching into the canvas bag I hadn't realized he was holding, and pulling out what appeared to be a spool of film. "Got a projector?"
"Huh?" I said, raising an eyebrow.
"A projector. I've got something I want to show you."
"...Rebecca. Some day, I'll show you something that will change your life..."
The memory hit me all too quickly, momentarily catching me off gaurd. For a moment, I simply stared at him.
"Becky?" he said "Do you have one?" He waved the movie in air.
I cleared my throte again. "Um... I think my dad does, but its downstairs," I paused. "and so is he."
"Well, can't ya just go down and get it?"
I sighed. "He'll want to know what I'm watching. He'll want to see it himself." I staired at the spool. "What is it, anyway?"
His lips curled up in a small, gentle smirk. "Nothing bad, just something I don't want to have to explain. Are you sure you can't just get it yourself?" he implored.
I shook my head.
"Damn!" he said, quietly, through clenched teeth. "Hm..." He looked up. "What to do; what to do..."
There was a knock at the door. My heart skipped a beat. Andy shoved the film back into the bag, and backed silently toward the window. The knock came again, now a little louder than before. "Becky? Are you in there?" my mothers voice came gently, yet impatiently.
"Um... yeah." I choked out. I motioned for Andy to leave, and he began to climb out through the open window, as quietly as possible. When he had one leg in and one leg out, he hit his head on the window-frame, producing a loud banging noise and pulling some air painfully through his clenched teeth.
"What was that?" came a voice from behind the door.
"Nothing!" I said, now getting very nervous.
All at once, the door-knob began to turn, Andy practically jumped from the window, and I dove back onto my bed reaching for the book, which had fallen to the floor.
My red-haired, green-eyed mother looked at me suspitiously. "What was that noise?"
I smiled nervously. "Dropped my book."
She raised an eyebrow. "And the voices?"
"I was reading out-loud." Another smile.
She sighed, walking to the open window, and looking down. My heart stopped again. She looked back at me, with a look of suspition, not of anger. So Andy had gotten away, bless him! "This isn't over." she said to me, keeping her eyes locked on mine as she slowly exited the room.
As soon as she was gone, I closed the book, taking a few deep and trembling breaths.
Thank God Andy's fast. Thank God.
|
|
|
| |
| Left Behind: V |
| 06.03.04 (5:15 am) [edit] |
The next few months went by with my father begrudging me at every turn, and my brothers laughing in my face at my constant punishment. Well, one much more than the other, but all-in-all, they were both against me.
I started seventh grade a wreck, a broken person without a true friend in the world. The strait-A's I'd recieved in elementary school were competely hidden beneath the failure I experienced in acedemics at that time. I just didn't care anymore. I cried very often, and hated nearly everybody I came into contact with--family, teachers, student, et cetera.
I was screamed at about my blatant disregaurd for my future on an every day basis, or beaten, or grounded. I hated my life with a passion, and didn't know any way out. How was I to know that the only way out of this situation was down? The whole seventh grade year went by like this. I don't want to get into any of the situations right now, as they would only serve to depress you. I'll skip to the start of my eighth grade year when things began to get interesting again.
It was a beautiful day. I was reading in my room--not the boring historical novels my school had assigned but wonderful display of modern literature I'd picked up for a discounted rate at the library. Please forgive me for not remembering the name of that book. It was so long ago, you see, and I still had a human mind.
I heard some rustling in the large maple outside my window. I looked up, and heard a knock. after looking closely, I could see the sun-burnt, male hand which was reaching up and rapping on the glass. I quickly threw down the book, and ran to the large, rectangular structure, opening it, and looking down.
My eyes widened. "Andy!"
|
|
|
| |
| Left Behind: IV (Run) |
| 05.17.04 (5:21 am) [edit] |
Oh, I've done it again. I've drifted from the world, and forgotten my place. I really must be careful, for I sometimes feel as if I don't exist at all in such a situation. I may simply fade away one day without even realizing I've done so... what ever would become of me then...?
I was just beginning to be comforted by Andy's warm embrace when a loud sound broke me from the swoon. "Boooooooooo!!!" yelled andy, and his fellow, colorful teenagers as a man in a gray tweed suit walked from the building carrying a briefcase.
He had an angry look on his face. He lifted a loudspeaker to his scowling lips. "I've called the police. They should be here any minute! Leave now, or you'll surely be under arrest!"
"Time to split, Becky." Andy said gently, getting up and helping me to my feet. He then cupped his right hand over his mouth to amplify his voice. "We'll be back, you corperate bastards!" he yelled, then began to run, taking me with him.
Still, I didn't know exactly what was happenning. I was lost no more than a mile and a half from my house with no one but this young, and aggressive hippy to guide me. In all fairness, my life was in his hands.
We stopped behind the wall of a local fast-food restaurant, both breathing heavily, as we heard the distant sound of sirens way back at the scene.
He looked at me, with a smile. "I guess you're wondering what that was about." he said.
I nodded, and he laughed. Was he high? I looked at his eyes... Only slightly. Hm... What beautiful eyes he had...
"Well, that building over there was a real estate office. They were planning to buy a protected reserve back from the state to sell it off for more," he stared up at the large, plastic burger on the top of the building, and a look of disgust swept over his face. "...Places like this." He spit on the ground.
I knew that nature was important, but I didn't undertand how it culd be that important to any one. I simply nodded.
He looked at my dumbfounded face, and smiled. "I'm sorry. You don't get it, do you?"
"Not really..."
"Okay," he said, rubbing his chin a bit. "They plan to destroy certain creatures' homes, in order to build more restuarants to eat the flesh of other creatures in. Not to mention the enviromentally deadly polution these places excreet."
He's willing to go to jail for that?, I wondered, Is he more high than I thought?
Now I was a bit scared. The way he was talking... It almost seemed as if he hated human beings in general. Did he hate me? Would he kill me if I disaggreed? I began to shake.
He looked back at me, and put his arm around my shoulder. "Becky, what is it?"
"Nothing." I said timidly. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to go home... I didn't want to die...
God help me!
"Hay," he said, lifting my chin. "Did I scare you? Sorry, I can seem kind of intense sometimes before you get to know me." Then I saw his eyes again. They were so, so gentle, so far from anything threatening. The sounds of the sirens boomed, and came closer. "Becky--"
"Rebecca."
"Hm?"
"Call me Rebecca. I hate Becky."
"Okay, Rebecca. Some day, I'll show you something that will change your life, okay?" He yanked me around the wall, pushing me through the doors, and down into the seat. He ran back to the door. "Okay?"
"Okay." I said, then I saw two men in blue approach Andy, and state that he was under arrest, to which he relied with a smile and a casual display of hs middle finger. They hand-cuffed him, and shuved him roughly into a brightly flashing police car.
the whole thig was terrifying to me, but even as the sirens left, and my father came, and dragged me out by my injured arm and sent me to my room "until I was thirty-five", all I could think of were him last words...
What is it, Andy? What do you want to show me?
|
|
|
| |
| Left Behind: III (Andy) |
| 05.10.04 (5:19 am) [edit] |
First I would like to clarify on something: Like I said in the first entry, I'm not going to promise that this is true, and I'm not going to promise that it's false. What I will say about the last entry is that--assuming you chose not to believe the actual story--it IS based on real events. It IS atleast BASED on a real beating.
Now, thankyou for all your support.
I should continue.
Before I knew it, I had no idea where I was. Through my rage, I was practically running with my eyes closed. I heard some chanting voices, but they were very distant to me. All I could hear clearly were my haggared breaths, and the horrible voice of my father still ringing in my ears.
I remember the distinct feeling of falling, of hitting the ground. What had happened? I'd tripped.
"Are you okay?" I felt some one touch my arm, lightly, lovingly. I looked up to see a Man, or boy, whatever you'd call a male human being visually between the ages of seventeen and nineteen. He had long light-brown hair, and eyes to match. He wore a tie-dye shirt with torn sleeves, and baggy bell-bottom jeans. I real steriotypical hippy.
I nodded. "Fine." I tried to say, but I think my words were lost somewhere in my throte.
"You took a pretty bad fall." With that, he grabbed my arm, and pulled me up into a sitting position next to him, not roughly like my father did, but gently, to make sure I wasn't just laying in the mud. Nevertheless, his touch hurt my arm. My father had really twisted the skin. I flinched. His eyes widened. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you."
"You didn't." I replied.
"Hm?" He paused. "Oh." He looked at the ground. "What's your name?"
"Rebecca."
"I'm Andy." He looked back at me. "Who hurt you, Rebecca? I mean, if you don't mind me asking."
I didn't know whether I should tell him or not. I think the only reason I did was because I always had trouble keeping my mouth shut when I was upset, and I loved to badmouth my father. "My dad." I said quietly. "I refused to say that I respected him. I think it all started from a sly remark I made over dinner, but you can never really tell with these things."
"That's horrible." He put his arm around me. All I could think is, this guy's foward, but that's just how these flower-children were. It was free love, no boundries. "It's nice to meet you, Rebecca."
I have to go. Please comment.
Thanks.
|
|
|
| |
| Left Behind: II (I hate my father.) |
| 05.09.04 (2:32 pm) [edit] |
Thankyou, thank you, thank you! Your support is such an amazing help!
Now on with my memories.
I would like to tell you that I will be writing this in as proper a form as possible. It might seem somewhat like a novel, but it's simply the way I write anything in the first person past tense.
My father looked into my eyes with such horrible malice that I could hardly bear it. "I told you to apologize!"
I replied in a shaking scream "And I told you that I wasn't sorry!"
His entire form trembled. "You little bitch!" He raised his large hand, and slapped me hard across the jaw. I didn't immediately hurt, it never does. It was just so hard and fast that it put me into a state of pure shock, the state required for any chance at all of defeting my body's urge to cry.
My mother stood idly by, with no real expression on her face. She didn't care. And my two brothers watched as well, one of them with distant concern and relief that it was me and not him; the other with a very satisfied sneer. I was looking at them when my father stepped between me and the others.
I wouldn't look up at him, I couldn't. If I did, the tears would win. "I hate you!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. Those words... I'd only spoken them to my parents twice in my life, both in the month of this very incident. My very proper and respectful upbringing had made them un-heard-of in my household. But like I said, I was changing.
"What was that, brat?!" he yelled, leaning down very close so I could feel his hot, putrid breath on my neck.
Now I did look up at him, refusing to be quite so cowardly. I said, sylable-by-sylable, in a very slow, mocking tone, looking right in his eyes "I said 'I-hate-you.' "
I swear I could almost see the flames in his eyes. "Bitch!!!" He grabbed me by my right arm, digging his nails deeply into it, and I squealed in pain. With his right hand, he struck the left side of my face with at least five times the force of the previous impact, then tossed me like a ragdoll onto the floor.
I closed my eyes, and burried my face in the carpet, as I tried with all my will to hear nothing but my shivering sobs, to lose myself in them, to lose my pain, and all thoughts of that bastard hovoring over me with the smirk in his face.
"Sorry yet, Becky?" he asked with mock-sweetness. (Yes, Rebecca is my real name. It's the only one I won't change. All others are completely fake.)
"No." I said quietly through my sobs.
"What...?"
"No!!!"
I tried to curl up into a protective fetal position, but he grabbed me harshly again, and dragged me to my feet, holding me us, as I refused to follow his orders and support my own weight. His nails dug in again.
"Get off!!!" I shrieked.
"I'm your father! You have to learn to respect me! Apologize now!"
"But I don't respect you."
With one more digging in of his claws, he threw me back. I staggered, just barely remaining on my feet.
He walked toward me, but I sped for the front door. Ignoring my burning in my chest, I simply ran. I ran and ran and ran.
Now, this was also prohibitted in my house. My parents were very concerned about the whereabouts of thier children at all times. They did not permit us to wander off like many parents did. So needless to say, even in my own nieborhood, I had no idea where I was going.
I'll continue later, when some of my strength returns. Remember, comments are almost literally my life-blood. Please help to keep me "alive".
Thank you.
|
|
|
| |
| Left Behind: I (past the introductions) |
| 05.09.04 (12:16 am) [edit] |
Hello, My Small but Very Appriciated Group of Readers. I hope some of you will have returned after this long absence of updates. I can't tell you exactly what happened. I suppose I simply lost track of time. Like I said, we as metaphysical beings have no need to watch clocks, or scribble on calenders. We needn't ration out hours or our days, or even years because as far as we know, they have the capacity to be endless. In fact, the very prospect of counting every single solitary second of our afterlives could quite possibly be the inevitable thing that drives spirits like me over the edge, causes them to fade away into whatever lies beyond this lonely purgatory I call home. And I don't want that to happen. Oh, no. I plan to hold onto what I have now for a long while yet.
And so I let myself fade temporarily as I exited reality, and delved into a world of deep reverie. I relived so, so many memories in the last week-or-so, some painful and some wonderful. For me, even the wonderful memories can shrouded by a layer of darkness, the human-like yearning for pleasures long-lost. I relived much of my short life, and then reentered the day of my death.
Mine was a nearly instantaneous passing, but oh so painfull. By painful, I don't mean physically excruciating. I mean that....
Well... Perhaps if I told the story it would be easier.
Granted, I will be changing names to protect those who still live. Should I start from the incident that lead to my demise or shall I begin from the beginning?
Well, I am--or was--a writer after all. I'll dictate the story properly.
But what is the beginning? Surely, I can't start from the moment of my birth, for obvious lack of memory, and most of my childhood would most likely be nothing of interest to you. Hmmm... What is the moment? When did things begin to change...?
Ah! I have it! Seventh grade, my twelfth year. That is when very many of my moral and philosofical revelations began to take place.
Now, the moment...
Well, a perfect time to start is when I made my first discovery about the nature of souls, of life and death, and of my place in the process.
It was the summer of '69.
I was almost twelve years old, just becoming a woman and noticing the changes in my body and mind.
My hair was auburn if anything, a mysterious shade between red and light-brown, but with a strange tendency to look purely blond in certain light, cancelling out the red pigment which shone with such brilliance in slightly different tones of illumination. It was half way down my back, reaching just three inches below the strap of my newly-bought bra.
MY skin was normal most of the time. I'd say I had the average composure of a normal blond. I tanned rather easily, turning nice golden shades just from my every-day exposure to the sun. I could become quite pale when I stayed out of it's rays for long periods of time, but that doesn't come in until a little later.
My eyes were either blue or green. I would have called them hazel, but they hadn't any hint of brown in them at all. They were strange, my eyes, and I absolutely loved that about myself.
Before that year, I'd thought my peculiar looks a bit distasteful, but it was at that time that I decided to except my strangeness for it's glory.
The tale starts with a fight I had with my overprotective father. It started, I believe, as a result of both my hormones, and his stubburn and aggravating arrogance.
I'm sorry. My energy runs short. Please reply if you'd like to hear more. I beg of you. It makes me feel so wonderful.
Thankyou.
|
|
|
| |
| Left Behind: a childhood diary, and my way of typing. |
| 04.28.04 (11:12 pm) [edit] |
Hello, once again.
DumbBlondGirl, to answer your question, yes, typing [i]would[/i] horribly drain me of energy if I tried it. I might get through one or two letters before ending up just like I did with the pencil. But you see, I don't type. How I transmit information onto the internet is hard to explain to someone still so anchored to humanity--no offense intended. I guess the best way to explain it is to say that I become one with the signal, the portion of energy which travels through the servers and tells the text, images, and colors where to go. I hope you can understand. If you can, and are insulted at it's simpicity, than I'm sorry for it; if you are baffelled at my words, than I'm also sorry. I've so forgotten what life is like...
And Atomsk, thank you for your comment. I so hope that you will come back to read more. I second post didn't do as good as my first.
Now, what should I talk about today? As a spirit, my day-to-day life is not exciting in the least. My life is not ruled by a clock or calender, or even the changes between night and day. I don't have "friends" persay. Like I said, most spirits are long-insane. My aquiantances of life are now either still alive or have passed so quickly through my realm and on to the other side that they never saw me at all.
My parents are still alive. How I hated my father in life! He was the abosutely perfect example of a racist, sexist, arogent biggot! The funny part is, despite all of our fights, all my preaching, and my tragically young age of death--over which he actually cried--he hasn't changed much at all in all these years.
Hm... now that I think of it, I remember him reading from one of my old diaries earlier today. I worked hard to keep every word of the enrty in my head. I think it read:
Friday, July 24, 1965
Dear Diary, now it is only a week until my birthday, and my parents said that I might be able to get uncle Rick's band to play at my birthday party.
That was written what I was eight-years-old.
...sounds too simple. It was probably unfinished. Of coarse, I have no recall now.
...almost fourty years ago... I can't believe it...
Well, I'm running out of strength again. Have I any requests? A description of my physical appearance perhaps? Someone let me know what they want to hear next.
|
|
|
| |
| Left Behind: Memories of My Time |
| 04.23.04 (6:23 pm) [edit] |
Before I really begin with my continuation of this blog, I must first thank those who have touched me in a way they could never even imagine with thier wonderful, yet unlearned human minds.
[b]fyrelegend:[/b] Oh, just to know that someone has heard my call, and no less wishes for me to continue is a joy like you could never know. I thank you from the very core of my non-physical heart.
[b]fallinangel8587:[/b] Ah, your name interests me more than anything else, for I was never an angel at yet, yet feel as if I've already fallen. Thankyou for your concideration.
Now on to my post.
Well, I suppose that was the real point of this post; to thank you, to let you know just hw greatful I am.
Imagine, if you will, thirty years of absolute isolation from beings by whom you are ultimately surrounded, but who know nothing of you.
Yes, there are more like me, but so many of them are so far trapped in thier own little worlds that they can no more set eyes upon my form then you can.
It's hell being alone. Strangely, I prefered it over the company of others during my life. I found the rest of the human race to be either stoners or machines, and this is barely an exageration. In my time, there were only the hippies fighting everything, and the yuppies fighting nothing but them.
I seemed to be the only person in existence who believed in the divinity of a search for happiness without needing to resort to delirium at any point along the way.
I suppose I was somewhat of a hippie, but I was no steriotypical flower-child. I was a vegitarian, and a liberalist, but black was my color of choice, and I swear to you now that I never touched a marijuana cigarette in my life.
I sometimes regret not having tried it. It was just another thing in life that I missed out on after all, and what harm would it really have done? None, I suppose, but it must have broken my complicated moral system, most of which I no longer remember clearly. All I know is that it was based mostly on the good of the masses, and on a personal dignity foresworn for myself.
I'm sorry. I must cut this short. I hate to stop now, but I feel myself weakening by the letter.
Goodbye.
|
|
|
| |
| Finally Back from Dead. |
| 04.20.04 (6:13 am) [edit] |
Before I get started, let me make a few things clear:
I am not like you, this I can almost definately assure.
If you're sitting before your computer screen with your hand on a mouse, and your eyes peering in, I am not like you.
If you wash your cloths, or sleep at night, or wake in the day, or perform frequent interactions with other human beings, I am not like you.
If you eat or drink, or grow, or live, or have the power to move objects larger than portion of virtual memory, I am not like you.
If you pine, or yearn, or hope, or dream, or wish that just for once, someone would listen... than I am like you... but only in that way...
You see, I am not alive, not in the manner you think of, but what is life really? No, I'm not a zombie, or a vampire--although I did enjoy reading the collective works of Anne Rice over the shoulder of a schoolgirl a few years back.
That's beyond the point, though. I am a ghost, I suppose, although the term seems as vulgar now as it ever did. Even in life, I tried to use the word as little as possible in my stories, and only in the point of view of the more closed-minded characters. I guess I prefer spirit, but even that doesn't sound right. In truth, I have no idea what I am.
I've become quite interested in this internet lately. I've found that with my minimal strength, I am just able to move within it, and edit the contents of this "free web-space" with only a bit of difficultly. I must rest often afterward.
I don't have a body like you have, this I know. I can't move things like you can, or like I could in life, although I'm sure it's quite possible. My dilema is that it takes SO much power to perform even the simplest poltergiest. I once attempted to reach a teenage writer much like myself by lifting her pen, and writing a message. The sheer effort it took me to budge that writing utensile enough to cause it to roll off of her desk--with no reaction from her, except a casual "hm...", mind you--left me drained for weeks.
The fatigue I feel is like human fatigue almost exactly, but much more intense. It left me unable to move from that spot for eight entire days, and then disfuntional for around twelve days after that.
I haven't eaten in around thirty years, or drank a sip of water. I don't need it anymore, nor do I need to bathe or work or do to school. Sounds nice right? Wrong. The absence of these simple pleasures of life would've made me lose my mind had I had one in the first place after I departed my body.
Well, I suppose that statement is incorrect. I still have a mind, but it's different. I don't dream, but I can have occasional visions. They pull me in when I'm in hyserics, and sooth me back to apathy... I suppose that is losing my mind, isn't it? ...I guess I was wrong.
I think I may have a body as well, but a weak one. Like I said, I can move things, but it's so nearly impossible, and so, so tiring...
Living humans seem to have the impression that when they die, they will either enter a fantastical realm of pure pleasure or move up in the world if they've been good; burn for eternity, or move down in some way if they've been bad. But who in the right mind would predict this? Who would want to disturb they're people with this horrid truth?
Who would want to know that, upon reaching the weakest part of your life, wasting away slowly, and painfully, or leaving your life quickly and shockingly without a moments notice, you simply shed what's left of your strength and become more helpless than you were on your own deathbed?
I wouldn't, but fear not. I don't even believe in what I am, so do not be shocked to badly. There must be another realm after this, or the plain of existance I occupy right now would be brimming with lost souls. No, those like me only number in the ten-billions, maybe tripling the living population of human beings on this planet. I'm sure there must be something more to come... I just pray to a god I hope exists that it isn't simply nothing at all...
For right now, I'll just continue to wonder as I tell you my tale... That is, if anyone is finally ready to listen...
I beseet you, tell me what you think... If I get but one reply, I'd be more than happy to continue.
Please don't ignor me anymore... I've waited decades just to be heard...
ps-Whether you choose to believe what I say or not is up to you, but please, just give me a chance to speak.
|
|
|
| |
|
|
